


Marc Jacobs and Manslaughter

by AmaraSquid



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, M/M, Or like crime, rich bitch, this is a high school au, this is also a murder au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5820124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmaraSquid/pseuds/AmaraSquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose Lalonde has been rich from birth. Her blanket as an infant was Versace, she drives a Bugatti, she is rich. She is beyond rich, and that's the life she's know. It's always been her against the world with a small group of allies, and a mother that can't stand up half the time. Thrown into the look is her brother, a figure she's only heard of. He's Texan Trash of the highest degree, and he's never had a dime in his life. Thrown together when their father is arrested, she finds a number of things in her life are changing. For starters, she's going to need a job. One that requires some muscle, which she now happens to have. Of course, jumping into the world of criminal activity isn't safe. She certainly can't go to prison. Orange isn't her color, and she's certainly not ready to give up eyeshadow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marc Jacobs and Manslaughter

**Author's Note:**

> An AU written by myself, one that my pal Dave // Reddisk is their name on ao3// came up with together. I'm @8bees on tumblr. They're @kylobenji. Hit us up.

Preparing for war is a process. The first step is the steady swipe of mascara being applied to thin blonde lashes, a feeling she’s become so very familiar with. Mascara is her sword. The weapon she carries in her purse, something she can take anywhere. The next piece of armor comes in the form of a coal black stick worth ninety dollars. She applies the eyeliner, steady as ever while cold eyes gleam back. A queen is reflected back at her. She is a force to be reckoned with, but not until her lipstick is removed from the bag. Velvet Matte, and darker in color, the application of it is key to adopting the persona. Once her makeup is finished, she does as she always does. Eye contact is maintained between reflection and original. The exchange is frigid, and necessary. She’s feeling confident. 

Assembling a suit of armor is key to any battle. She has already donned the necessary jewels and accessories to lead. Leading isn’t everything in a war. Glancing through her wardrobe, she feels a pang for her credit card. Maybe this weekend will be shopping spree with one of the girls. Maybe this weekend will be the modification of what she has now. Her selection is swift enough despite the sprawling expanse of the room that holds her clothes. The selection of a black sweater and jeans reflects her choice to relax today. She is a goddess, but she is a goddess that likes to enjoy a day off. Either way, she’s confident enough that she could literally stroll into the school while wearing a clown suit and not a soul within the walls of that hell of a building would open their mouths. 

She has a reputation. The kind of reputation that wards off boys, spare the freshmen boys that stagger in full of hope or the seniors that think they’ve worked their way up to her level. She is a junior herself, and the only thing keeping her from burning the school down and walking out of the flames is the promise of jail and the knowledge that she has a mere year and a half left. A year and a half, and then she can retire off to a different school with likeminded individuals. She’s getting an English degree paired with Political Science. When she sleeps, she can see herself in congress or the white house if she’s managed to truly work her way up that high. One day, though, she’s going to claim the throne she deserves. 

Her boots cost more than some cars, and she’s fine with that as she slides them on. She’s scuffed them more times than she can even count. There is no regard for the cost. It’s not that she doesn’t feel bad for those without cash; it’s that she’s been raised this way. So she’ll tell her mother. Affluenza was her defense each and every time her mother came down the spiral staircase. Assuming she came down, sometimes she remained perched at the top in fear of spilling the contents of both her drink and her dress. Sometimes, Rose Lalonde considers the possibility of pushing her mother down the staircase, watching her fall by the golden railing. It helps her sleep at night. 

Once dressed, she takes herself to the private bathroom, one of seven within the lavish home. Staring at herself in the mirror, she furrows her brows. There is always something unfamiliar about her like this. Dolled up, but savage. The savage look coming from her hair, a mess of gigantic proportions. A bob cut of sorts, short in the back, angled and longer in the front. She looks sharp, like a switchblade dipped in pink. Maybe that’s why people aren’t accustomed to getting close to her. They’re afraid that they’ll get cut on the edges. This was likely enough, considering her usual disposition. Rose Lalonde was the kind of girl that people got hurt on without even trying. She was also the kind of girl that couldn’t be considered popular, nor unpopular. 

She was somewhere off the social spectrum. Dior clad and damned to a lifetime of reluctance from any of the poor souls in her school that thought about befriending her. Dior, Damnation, and Death seemed to be accurate enough words to throw at Rose Lalonde. Not to her face of course. No one said much of anything to Rose Lalonde’s face. There was a large satisfaction in this. Although she’d never hurt someone in the physical sense, her tongue was a weapon of its own. The man that penned the phrase the pen was mightier than the sword had no idea. There was no point in swords when Rose Lalonde was in the room. Perhaps that was why each English assignment came back with the highest marks possible. 

It took half an hour to straighten her hair and apply enough hairspray to assure the blonde strands remained in place. Her hair was dyed. Naturally blond, but the current blond she’d adopted was leaning towards white. She’d considered the repercussions that would come with dyeing the slightly fried strands some other color. Her mother had promised to shave her head if she went through with it. Rose Lalonde had mentioned slipping rat poison into her drink. Venomous and hateful, she was a thing to behold. Benevolence was not in her nature. 

Exiting her room, she caught sight of her mother on the sofa. Rose wrinkled her nose in surprise, what was she doing awake at this hour? Glancing over her mother, she noted the ruffled hair, the small quirk of her lips upwards, the smeared makeup. She hadn’t gone to sleep. If Rose was one to bet, she would’ve bet her life on the fact that her mother had come in three hours ago. Checking the clock on her phone, it was now seven. School started at eight. When she finished absconding down the stairs, she walked forward before standing before her mother. Half lidded, cold, and frigid violet eyes locked on her mother’s own vibrant gaze. 

In silence, Rose removed what she assumed was likely her mother’s twentieth glass of whatever she was drinking these days, and promptly dropped it on the white carpet. Moth drawn into a firm line, she continued to stare down the now startled looking woman. “I suggest you consider cleaning the rug. It’s a pig sty in here, mother.” Exhaling sharply, she turned on her heel and strolled into the kitchen in a prompt manner so her mother could not retort. Not that Rose was afraid of whatever slurred verbal vomit that would exit her mother’s gaping mouth. She wanted her mother to choke on the olive in her martini. 

The kitchen, chrome and shiny with its stainless steel finishing was spotless as always. It was so rarely used. Usually, Rose grabbed food before heading home, or she and her friends went out to eat. She did not, in any cases, enjoy eating at the dinner table with her mother. The large elaborate oaken table, one Lalonde seated on either side of the wooden expanse. Each Lalonde drank a glass of wine, something expensive. She despised that table. When her mother eventually kicked the bucket, she was going to burn it. She was going to light it on fire, and watch it burn. It wasn’t worth selling. There were long marks carved into the table, steak knives, broken glasses, whatever Rose needed to do for attention as a child. These days she’d do anything to get her mother’s heated gaze off of her back. 

"Rose, darling, I sincerely hope you’ve eaten breakfast this morning. You know what your therapist says about eating breakfast.” She hears it rise from the room she left; she can hear the edge in it as well. Her therapist has never mentioned anything about eating breakfast. Rose Lalonde does not usually indulge in breakfast. Sometimes, it’s a wonderful idea; generally the dread of classes sears her nerves into being too shaky to care about eating. All queens have their fears, hers happens to be the inevitable failure of classes. Either way, he mother seems to have found it in her head that the problems Rose currently faced were linked to her lack of sleep, lack of breakfast, and lack of exercise. She did not reply to the woman, apart from a rude gesture and a hint of anger flaring up in her chest. 

Escaping the house through the back door, she made her way towards the garage. A blanket of white had settled across the landscape of the home. Snow storms have left several inches for the girl to climb through to get into the garage. Her driver rests there, a tall man with silver flecks in his beard. She has no idea what his name is. He’s been driving her for the last four years, and she has never said a word to him. There is a cigarette between his fingers, which she deftly removes and drops to the ground, slowly crushing it under her heel. He says nothing, but regards her with a cold look and a slow movement of getting to his feet. 

Climbing into the car, she has no idea as to what it is, but it’s certainly expensive and small. Relaxing on the leather seats, she crosses her legs and checks her phone. Three unread messages from one of the girls she hangs around with. She deletes them. Her thoughts are too situated on her own problems at the moment. She regrets not wearing a dress, or a skirt. She’s so very used to wearing those, jeans are a treat, she reminds herself. 

Yawning, she finishes out the ride in peace. Faintly she can hear what she believes to be rap playing on the radio. Although the driver never turns it up loud enough to know. He pulls up to the door, and she steps out slowly. Stretching when she stands, she catches sight of Kanaya, and her usual greeting ensues. The corner of her lips quirk up into a grin, and she wraps an arm around the taller girl’s waist. She’s dressed in nicer clothes, when is she not? Kanaya however, does not go to the outlets, or designer stores. She goes to fabric shops, and makes and creates. She’s a work of art, and Rose is infatuated, although she has yet to bring her feelings to light. For now, they are the closest of friends. Friends that have kissed twice now. Friends that have been so close to not being friends. 

Her first class is math. Rose is many things, she is an expert in English, she is cunning, she is dangerous, amoral, many things, but she is not good at math. She is bad at math. She is not failing, but she can hardly consider this passing. Furrowing her brows, she is slightly confused. Slightly is goo good. She is lost. Staring at the sad looking attempt to do math on the side of the page, she shook her head. Already, she was mourning the loss of Harvard. She ghosts through math, pretending she knows exactly what it is she’s doing. 

The rest of the day is similar, she floats through the halls, she bares her teeth at enemies, and she shakes hands with friends. Life goes as expected, and soon enough, she’s back in the car with the driver. He lifts his head up, glances back, and she hears him speak for the first time. “Your mother wanted me to tell you, you have a guest.” His voice is thick with an accent she doesn’t recognize. She offers a curt nod and feels strange knowing this unspoken rule has been broken. Strange, she thinks, strange. 

When she arrives home, the foyer is filled with two bags of luggage, and there is chatter in the living room. She makes her approach slow, eyebrows raised in honest curiosity. There is a boy sitting on the sofa. He looks just like her, spare the difference in hair. His is natural, and too long. He has a number of visible scars. She knows exactly who he is. 

_“You must be David. I was wondering when I’d get to meet you.”_


End file.
